The Games of Powerful Men
by inK.AddicTion
Summary: Is it so much to ask, everything? Not when he demands it. Magnussen just wants to control Mycroft Holmes. And with his baby brother Sherlock, he can do just that.


**Title- The Games of Powerful Men**

**Summary- Is it so much to ask, everything? Not when he demands it. He just wants to control Mycroft. And with Sherlock, he can do that.**

The first Magnussen hears of Mycroft Holmes is a whisper; a quiet, elusive informant letting herself into the study of Appledore one cool British night. Frankly, Magnussen prefers America. England seems to have a constant threatening shroud of grey rain.

She comes with her custom grace, elaborate hair coiffed and curled. Magnussen stands at the window and drinks a tumbler of whisky. She leans close to him and tells him that first intoxicating, heady glimpse of a dark and cold intelligence, a hungry power to rival his own. His curiosity is aroused. For now, it is enough to save the woman's daughter.

Years pass and slowly, subtly, Magnussen integrates himself into the British government. The higher he reaches, the deeper he goes, he encounters further examples of this mysterious intelligence's work. Names missing. Bodies disappeared. No questions asked.

_Beautiful._

Each step becomes a deadly secret challenge. It gives him a vicious thrill. Magnussen is insatiable.

What Charles Augustus Magnussen wants, he gets.

And he _wants _this elusive power.

His persistence pays off. One near-silent, dark whisper is all it takes. Two honeyed letters, a gorgeous weakness, a fatal flaw, two perfect initials, _MH._

_MH._

_Oh God, _Magnussen thinks, striding through the vaults of Appledore, _it's not _enough.

He devotes his resources to conquering the British Government with all the slow thrill of a child patiently peeling away each layer of wrapping paper to get at the present beneath. He becomes obsessed with MH. He dreams about controlling the superpower.

He collects rumors, misspoken talk, snippets, fragments, and builds the beautifully, painfully elusive MH a wing of his own in the darkest, hungriest depths of his extensive Appledore vaults. He hears freakish stories about a powerful, icy intelligence, about danger, about a man, face ever-changing, who _is _the British Government.

And then he finds the newspaper clipping of a man named Sherlock Holmes. It covers the story of his dramatic suicide, and it contains one, simple, tiny quote that unlocks the whole mystery, that unshrouds MH with one savage yank.

_..."He -and his asshole brother I guess- were like nothing you've seen before, Sherlock was incredible, there was no way in history Sherlock could have faked it..."_

Holmes.

_Holmes._

It takes digging, but Magnussen's instant suspicion is sound, and he finds himself grinning into his tumbler of celebratory whisky that night, the newspaper clipping held firmly in one hand, finger automatically tracing the shape of the H, the round O, straight L, the M, E and S.

* * *

Armed with a name, he digs that much faster. His resources uncover the path before him, scurrying like frightened rabbits, and just a month after the news clipping, Magnussen has a name and a face.

"Mycroft Holmes," he says aloud, treasuring the sound of it in the air, and it feels like a triumph to be able to say it, to know it. _I won._

He looks down at the grainy photo in his hand. It is caught off a CTTV camera outside an empty Islington warehouse Magnussen's spies had observed people close to Sherlock Holmes being brought to in obviously sleek dark government cars. It is the barest glimpse, a pale face, the line of shoulders, but it is all Magnussen needs.

So it seems Mr Mycroft Holmes is indeed a man, and tall, too, judging by the position of his shoulder against the door. High cheekbones, long neck, thinning hair, but his eyes catch Magnussen's attention. They are sharp and clear, even in the blurry black and white CTTV, and they gleam with a remote coldness that Magnussen aches to shatter. He wears a suit, at his throat, a tie. He runs his thumb over the image's high cheekbones, memorizes the curve of the long, arched neck.

Magnussen spends hours carefully refining the image, removing the graininess, adding tints of colour. He prints it out and keeps it in his bedside drawer, to look back on the day he conquers Mycroft Holmes, _truly _conquers him, the way only Magnussen can.

It is almost half a year before anything further happens. Magnussen is infuriated; his workers are inferior, his press are inferior, everyone is inferior, no one is helping him get closer to Mycroft Holmes. He knows Mr Holmes is aware of his existence, he knows Mr Holmes has some very good spies. But he also knows that dear Mycroft won't bother to interact with him and possibly incur a political enemy when he doesn't have to.

And right now, he doesn't _have _to.

So Magnussen reaches ever further, deeper into the nest of plots and lies that is the British Government, the world over which ruled Mycroft Holmes, king in the shadows, overlord of the spider's web. He follows tendrils of connections to his next target and falls upon it with all his might, crushing it under his steadily growing power with all the ferocity of a rabid dog before turning to the next point, the next victim, subjugating them all with a reckless obsession impossible to resist.

Just as he gives up and makes preparations to move permanently to his English house of Appledore, a revelation shocks the press.

_GENIUS DETECTIVE ALIVE, _read the broadsheets, _HAT DETECTIVE SOLVING CRIME, _even _REAL OR NOT REAL- THE GENIUS OF SHERLOCK HOLMES._

He receives that news in advance, of course, his own little section of the press alerting him to the news before it was released. He listens to his messenger's voice again in his vaults, repeating the message, because surely, surely, the world could not have granted him a stroke of such luck?

It is all so clearly obvious now. Mycroft Holmes' sleek, icy exterior yields no flaws, nothing Magnussen could use to make him break. The man has no relationships and considers himself asexual, no friends or companions of any kind in particular, but for his assistant, former operative A- in fact, he is a blank record. Trying to find a flaw in Mycroft Holmes' armour is comparable to trying to climb a grease-slicked smooth wall. One that constantly rotated, with men atop the battlements to pour boiling pitch on climbers.

But here now- a chink, a foothold, a crack. Something Magnussen could finally _use._

The answer lay in Sherlock Holmes' story. A tragically simple tale, truly, Magnussen almost pities Mycroft Holmes for his weak, stupid little sibling. What a _trial _his childhood must have been.

_Young genius, turned to drugs to solve his boredom. (Obvious. Stupid child.) __Picked up from drugs by a Detective Inspector, (note, research. Pressure point alternative?) becomes addicted to solving crime. __(Ever the addict, Mr Holmes.) Became addicted to limelight, the success, the thrill and the chase. (Susceptible to risk-taking, illustrated by Moriarty debacle) Met army doctor John H. Watson (note, adrenaline addict) who tolerated behavior and formed a friendship. (note, weakness for friendship, unappreciative of 'human company') Genius disproved in papers by Richard Brook, supposed 'actor Moriarty'. (Confirm reports) Genius suicided (possible coercion.) _

Sherlock Holmes had survived a jump off the roof of St Bartholomew's Hospital. It could be done, but that he had survived with apparently nary an injury and then been gone for two years under mysterious circumstance reeked of Mycroft Holmes' interference. It is obvious.

Sherlock Holmes had been forced into the jump, probably by the same person who had disproved him in the papers, Mr James Moriarty. _(Possible pressure points exploited- Friends and family, i.e, John Watson, drug abuse, note, further data required) _Sherlock Holmes had known about the possibility and had contacted his brother for aid. His brother had aided him and presumably Sherlock Holmes had then spent the next two years disabling 'Richard Brook's' network, which he could not have done without the connections of his brother.

"But of course," Magnussen whispers aloud with a smirk, "would a brother like Mycroft Holmes risk his political standing, job, and career to help his foolish younger brother?"

_Familial love, of course. (Note, investigate possibility of further attachment.) _

He has his pressure point. With a little digging, he uncovers that Sherlock Holmes has never been charged for a single offense, although there are many reports filed about his atrocious social manner and utter disrespect. Obviously, a cover-up. He also finds entrance and exit reports for several top drug rehabilitation centers, the type of centers that only the best and most discreet could find.

Further evidence supports his conclusion. Magnussen decides that to get to Mycroft Holmes, he will have to control his little brother. But how can he go about that?

He arranges for Doctor Watson to be kidnapped and put in a fire. As he expects, Sherlock rushes to save him with John Watson's fiancee Mary. Ah, Miss Morstan, if that's what she calls herself now.

He visits 221B to get the measure of his opponents. The sheer number of Sherlock's weakness shock him, he would have thought that Mycroft would have taught his little brother something at least. _Caring really is not an advantage, Mr Holmes. You do seem to care, ever so._

Slowly, the chain connects. He has 'Mary', with her assassin past, and through her he has John, and through him, Sherlock, and finally, the ultimate prize.

He wonders briefly if the revelation of Mary's assassin past will throw a wrench in his plans. He knows John Watson though, and he knows that the loyal, brave soldier would not abandon his baby to his wife. And Mary would not abandon her child. The bond is perhaps not as strong but Magnussen knows he has enough.

It is time to make his move.

He begins with Lady Smallwood, small bits of pressure, layers of lies, manipulations. He knows word will get through the Mycroft. and he knows that Lady Smallwood would do anything to save her husband. He tells her about the love letters, and leaves, knowing his job is done.

Smallwood would turn to Sherlock Holmes for the case. Mr. Holmes the younger would be caught up, thrilling in the chase. He'd play right into Magnussen's hands, if he timed it right.

Sherlock Holmes starts taking drugs again.

Magnussen isn't fooled. He pities Sherlock, really, and feels even more sorry for Mycroft than he did before. Such a petulant child, even after all of this time. And so dear to his Holmes' heart. He would teach Mycroft to allow those broken flames to die. Maybe, once he has firm control on his Holmes, he would allow Mycroft to shoot his brother. Magnussen thinks he might like that, once he sees sense. Sherlock has never given him anything but pain and trouble._  
_

But Sherlock is on the case. Magnussen watches his progress with a sort of amused detachment, tracing the detective's subtle steps towards the scene of the crime. He thinks maybe a visit is due. Mycroft has been unusually quiet, none of Magnussen's contacts have reported anything about him recently. Time to rile him a little.

He plans a visit to Baker Street.

Ostensibly, he plans to return Smallwood's letters. He even takes them with him, in a show of good faith. But when he gets there, and sees those grey-blue-green eyes and aristocratic features that remind him of his brother, he feels contempt and pity for Sherlock Holmes. He scans him, noting his weaknesses with the half-interested kind of eye a shark might have for a small fish darting past. He already knows Sherlock's greatest weakness.

He decides to show Sherlock who is in charge and relieves himself with an utter lack of embarrassment in his fireplace. He smirks at the thought of Mycroft's outrage at the violation of his precious English courtesy.

Mycroft is so close in his grasp now that he cannot stand it. He slips up. He makes a mistake.

Janine, the weak point in his security. Like a hunting hound, Mr Holmes falls upon it and exploits her. He doesn't know it at the time of course. Miss Morstan, well, perhaps Mrs Watson now, has broken into his office, and is holding him at gunpoint, when Sherlock appears. That Sherlock has simultaneously saved him and doomed his brother does not fail to escape him as he watches Sherlock crumple to the floor, a red rose blooming on his chest where Mrs Watson had shot him.

His surprise lasts an instant- she pistol-whips him across the face and darkness is all he knows, for a little while.

* * *

He wakes up in his hotel room. Magnussen is furious, but as his headache is soothed by a handy bottle of Paracetomol and a tumbler of whisky- too early to drink, really, but these English truly did have ridiculous rules over here- his fury fades back into his usual calm derision.

He evaluates the facts and realises he actually could have died. Mrs Watson, if that was to be her name, is a lot more deadly than he had given her credit for. But she had played her hand too early, and he spends the next few days tightening his security to impassable and keeping half an eye on the contentious rivalry between Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, and Mary.

He observes the entire farce behind the fake building with some amusement and resolves to purchase the building. Perhaps he will convert it and have his own 'private office' there. He hates having to keep prisoners at Appledore, they can lead to too many security risks, but if he is going to truly break Mycroft Holmes, the man would not cave easily, even with Sherlock in his grasp.

And then it comes. The beautiful, beautiful, foolish Holmes boy gives him exactly what he needs to finish this little game of his. Time for the grand reveal, he thinks.

Magnussen pulls out the CTTV image, grainy and awkward, and presses the pad of his forefinger against Mycroft's forehead, right between his eyes, where the sniper's bullet would go, if he ordered it. He has better pictures of Mycroft now, if he wants, but he doesn't.

_I won._

* * *

It's Christmas Day when Sherlock Holmes appears at the gates of Appledore, faithful friend at his side. Magnussen almost laughs when he hears that Mycroft is drugged, asleep, back at his family home, while his younger brother hands what he believes to be his leash over to his greatest enemy. Magnussen takes great delight in telling Sherlock he already owns Mycroft.

The look on the petulant child's face is shocked and outraged when Magnussen reveals all his knowledge is held in his mind. No hardcopy Appledore. He laughs.

And then Magnussen begins to play.

He has calculated how long it is likely to take before Mycroft's assistant wakes him and sends the elder Holmes down upon him like an avenging angel. How Magnussen looks forward to tearing the halo from his head and clipping those shadowy wings. But in the mean time, he may as well enjoy himself.

He gets John to stand still and makes Sherlock watch as he flicks John's face, again and again, trying to hit the doctor's sapphire blue eye. A darker warmer blue than Mycroft's, he thinks. He prefers the Holmes' eyes. The helplessness and hatred on Sherlock's face is glorious, and Magnussen savors his victory.

He hears the thunder of helicopter blades, and looks up. A spotlight falls upon him, and he feels an immense urge to throw his arms wide and laugh in the face of all of Mycroft's efforts, which were too little, too late.

Men in dark suits crawl in the bushes of his beautiful Appledore, like ants beneath his feet. Magnussen is atop the world. His eyes make contact with Mycroft's, once, in the cab of the helicopter, and he cannot restrain a wild, incredible grin at the look he sees there. It is a sudden, cold realisation, that suddenly gives way to panic. Mycroft's mouth parts, and he senses rather than hears a half-begun word, and he spins to face Sherlock, just in time for the detective to grab his blogger's gun from his pocket and shoot him in the head.

Magnussen hangs, for one moment, upright, accusatory, robbed of his victory at the height of his reign, and then he falls, slowly, and all at once, as the vaults of Appledore explode around him in a thousand angry ashes.

* * *

His baby brother has killed a man.

Mycroft walks slowly down the corridor leading to the private morgue, the picture of sophisticated grace. His stride is smooth and untroubled. His face is blank, his eyes are shuttered and cold, and his grey suit, his only concession to the assumption of mourning, is perfect, as always. Every second or third step, he taps the ferrule of his black umbrella against the floor. His polished shoes gleam faintly in the light.

Sherlock, little Sherlock who used to run up to him with eager bright blue eyes underneath a mop of curly black hair, is a cold blooded killer. He had shot a man in his own home, on his own porch.

The thought did not particularly trouble Mycroft. He is resigned that Sherlock will always see himself as a dragon-slayer, and John Watson as his first mate, like Redbeard used to be.

Sherlock is still only a child, he thinks, the games of powerful men do not survive in the minds of the naive and the young. That was your mistake, Charles Augustus Magnussen. Like a child playing chess, when Sherlock loses, he throws away the playing board.

**I wanted to try something different. Thoughts?**


End file.
